Pits of Detritus
by alltheotherpennamesweretaken
Summary: Begins with Jack and Ewan thrown into prison and looks in on them until the movie starts.  It questions the idea of what happens when one is forgotten. -Summary may be subject to change later, as well as title-


**A few notes before we get started: **

**1. I don't own **_**the Condemned**_**, blah blah blah. You know, I still haven't figured out just what that disclaimer means, but just to follow with the pack; there it is. **

**2. Jack Conrad will be noted throughout the story as Jack Riley, since that is his real name and all. And in dialogue, he'll be Jack Conrad, since that is his real name and all.**

**3. Each of the chapters will begin with the character's name and in some cases, what hellhole they are stuck in.**

**4. The M is here for a reason folks. If you don't like the sex, violence and gore, maybe you shouldn't watch R Rated movies.**

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Title: Forgotten

Summary: _He woke from the white nothingness of shock to find the trial had predictably forgotten him._

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Jack Riley**

The trial was a joke; _but aren't they all, _he thought. It was El Salvador, and he hadn't gone down there for the tan and a couple of margaritas. Anyway, it was obvious from the moment he had entered the courtroom – oh, so gracefully – that the entire thing was little more than a show. He instantly recognized several of the guards and a few of the audience members as Villejo cartel. And while he didn't know the judges, he assumed they were with the very same cartel he had just put a dent in two weeks earlier. (It seemed like just two weeks.) His lawyer was asleep half the time, showing absolutely no interest in actually getting him off – wait, Jack was thankful for that one.

They shuffled him in in chains – still cut, bruised, battered, beaten and unsteady on his feet – amid the booing and rancid fruit from the crowd. Apparently his popularity in the country had increased since the building blew. With this kind of atmosphere, Jack knew the US wasn't coming for him. It gave him a grim face and brought Sarah to mind again for more than a moment.

A rotten mango slapped his side, catching him off guard as the pit hit a broken rib. Jack nearly fell to a knee in pain. Within a moment, the nightsticks were upon him, catapulting him forward face-first with no way to catch himself. In a futile attempt, he stumbled through the chains and landed smack into the metal rail that made up the tiny prisoner's platform stomach first. The pain, compounded on relentless beatings, the rattling fall he had taken trying to run from the explosives he'd set, and the guard's visits sent him reeling over the side. He had to think real hard about not throwing up the blood and bile that came willingly from the back of his bowels.

He got not a seconds respite leaning over the bars trying his hardest to slog through the purple pain haze. One of the guards roughly grabbed the back of his shirt and neck and half-tossed him into the metal pen that he had just run into. Colliding with the rim on the other side, Jack blacked out, and dropped partly over the side.

He came to about a quarter way into the trial, locked into a hunched, half-standing pose by tight, taught shackles binding him to the platform floor. A thunderbolt shot through him from side to shoulder as soon as he tried to raise his head, an obvious reward for being wrenched down a foot to make the cuffs fit.

As the pain subsided to the stifled roar in his sides, and Jack regained his cognizance, he realized that the trial was pointless to try and pay attention to. The entire thing was in fast-forward Spanish, with no translator, in a hot, muggy room filled with combatants. Often when he glanced back at his lawyer – maybe three or four times – the balding fat man was asleep or stacking pencils.

The clock ticked by in slow succession, the cacophony of two men arguing Spanish in the background muted out in Jack's mind. Tick… Tick… Tick… Tick… An hour and fifteen minutes of ticks. Two hours and seven minutes of ticks, and on it went. Sweat dropped into his vision, and Jack fought to leave it there – blind vigilance. Once, he shook his head; a bat told him it was not the wisest idea.

Half an hour and twelve minutes after that, he woke again from the white nothingness of shock to the picture of iron bars. Raising his head, the scene had not changed. The trial had predictably forgotten him and he stood there sore from the crouching, waiting to go back to his cell.

His rats would miss their dinner tonight. They might get mad at him.

Movement registered in his vision, from the corners inward, and Jack jerked back. His Pavlov response garnered a blow in return from the guard stationed behind him; the one in front jumped back, fearing an attack. Seconds later, the three men came to the mutual understanding that Jack wasn't going to do anything – under the penalty of baton – and that the two men needed to do their job. One of them anyway, and Jack recognized him as the one who hit him in the ribs with his rifle-butt on the day of the raid.

He wasn't as particularly rough leading him out of the room as say, the guard with the broken nose. Jack figured he was harboring an unnecessary grudge. Best to get over it, for health reasons of course.

"YOU'RE DEAD MOTHERFUCKER! You hear me, _puta? _DEAD!_ Muerto!_" A rambunctious Latino, all of five-feet-four, caught his attention, screaming loudly in English for a change. He was wriggling against the guard forcing him to the podium Jack had just left, trying to give the man a hard time but failing well at it. Nothing particularly worrisome, Jack figured he could just break a couple of the boy's arms and be done with him in a minute. The English was a nice change – probably a gift from the Vilejo cartel to welcome him in. A shove from the guards got him going again. It seemed like he was always being shoved somewhere else to be left for a while.

The cell was the same when he returned - small and damp; the cell was different. It seemed more spacious, but with all the resulting blows he had taken to reach the small space, Jack needed more than a moment to figure that the bed was gone. The guards had ripped it out while he he had been in court, he assumed. With a groan, he leaned his colorful, aching back against the wall and sat, staring at the door. He wondered casually if his arm was dislocated.

_Sigh. _It was going to be a long stay.

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**A/N: Ewan's up next folks. Gotta earn that M rating somehow.**

**And I'd love to hear some reviews, you know, boost my ego and all that. I know that it's a practically non-existent meta, but I'd like to hear some feedback on what I'm doing right and wrong and stuffs. Interaction? It's nice.**


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